


Sansa Stark's Definition of Leisure

by DottyDot



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, F/M, Jonsa Spring Blossom Challenge, Post S8, jonsa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 10:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18179348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DottyDot/pseuds/DottyDot
Summary: Eventually his behavior had caused an argument, their first fight since he had returned, and gods, did he love it.





	Sansa Stark's Definition of Leisure

Eventually his behavior had caused an argument, their first fight since he had returned, and _gods_ , did he love it.

 

Sansa's eyes darkened, her anger filled the room even without her saying a word. She drew herself up to her full height and with the furs she wore, he momentarily felt dwarfed by her. 

 

"I want you in those meetings." She stated, her anger making him feel an unstated "or else" hovering nearby.

 

"And I don't wish to go." 

 

"Is this about who your bloody father was? It doesn't matter which man impregnated which woman, we both know  _my_  father was your fa--"

 

"No." He couldn't let her say that. That was the one thing she mustn't say or think. "I am not a Stark. It isn't right for me to pass judgement or offer my opinion."

 

"You are a Stark to _me_." What should have been a heartwarming declaration was instead shouted into his face with all of Sansa's pent up frustration over months of trying to get him to do  _something_ , anything.

 

He had shaken his head, unable or unwilling to express his thoughts, and Sansa stood panting, her fury abating, slowly, and noticing how close they stood, she stepped away.

 

Instead of pushing them apart, their arguments inevitably lead them closer to each other, drawn in as if their words were clawing away at what was between them because they did not want anything but the two of them to remain.

 

They formed an island in their anger, their arguments creating a place where there was nothing but them, until they stopped, remembered who and what they were, and stepped away from each other. Their vehemence filled something in him that had felt empty, the craving for Sansa that her controlled, polite interactions could never satisfy.

 

And that was what she had been, his doses of her strictly the measured offerings of a Lady to a Lord. Before the war, when they first head the news, she had told him that no one need ever know about his parentage. They could keep it secret, allow him to hold onto that last thread connecting him to the Starks. She paused, staring at him that night before the war began, “Either way, Jon, heir to the throne or bastard half-brother, you are a Stark to me.”

 

He was entertaining the Dragon Queen, keeping her happy until they no longer needed her dragons or her armies, and he could not possibly explain his feelings to Sansa while bedding another woman. Yet, he knew he could not remain what he was if he ever intended to, so he kissed Sansa’s hands, shook his head, defeated the white walkers, and won Daenerys her throne in exchange for being acknowledged as a Targaryen bastard. He burned the Septon's diary, the only proof of his claim. Daenerys was not pleased when he refused to continue their relationship, but she had her throne, so she permitted him to go home.

 

His newly discovered hereditary could not change what Winterfell was to him, although his home had changed anyway. Bran talked to birds or ran the world, Jon never knew which at any given moment, and Arya came and went on adventures, Gendry always in tow. The man was sickeningly besotted. Of course, the one-time Jon said so to Gendry, he had merely raised a knowing eyebrow at Jon, making Jon wish he had not brought up the topic at all. He wished it even more fervently when Gendry called Arya over to the fire and they proceeded to make each other laugh with examples of Jon's love for Sansa, which was apparently, not much of a secret at all. Thankfully, they left on another trip soon, leaving Jon, his secret, and Sansa behind in Winterfell.

 

Sansa was Wardeness of the North, his other stipulation, and while Jon found he had little to do, Sansa had the opposite problem. Since he had left Winterfell as a green boy, he had known nothing but danger and killing. He had not realized how accustomed he became to the fighting until the wars were ended, and he stood in the Winterfell courtyard, with no one left to fight. He was at a loss at what to do with himself, except brood over how little he saw her.

 

Even though they lived in the same castle, Sansa was perpetually busy, never loitering or unoccupied long enough for a walk or ride, for sitting by the fire to reminisce with him or laugh over childhood stories. The redistribution of food, the rebuilding, the renegotiation of titles and lands, she was never not doing something. In his sullenest moments, Jon thought it was almost like when they were children, both existing within the same walls, but not living in the same world. 

 

It was not like that at all, not really, because if Sansa did see him, on the way from one destination to the next, she smiled. Sometimes she even stretched out a hand to touch his arm, just to assure herself he was there. She offered to entreat the Queen to give him some title or land, and he tried to look less pained as he rejected the idea. "My place is here." He would say, refusing every offer without discussion.

 

Sansa suggested he could be her advisor, but Jon shook his head. He was afraid his presence, as former king, would diminish her standing before the Lords. So, he thanked her before drifting away, too busy himself with bemoaning the fact that he was of no use. Sansa summoned him on occasion, in spite of his refusals, to have him present in the meetings so he might offer an opinion later, in private. He went, always acutely uncomfortable with his unidentifiable role and place.

 

So now they fought, not that he wanted to, but he _did_ enjoy it.

 

When Sansa forgot herself, he fell under a cascade of her real self and his self that he struggled to face. Anytime, every time they argued, it felt like falling under water, or being covered over in snow, or standing on the wall, surrounded by the roar of frigid winds. He was pushed beyond his strength to resist, buried in feelings he could not control, and whatever it was they drowned in, it tasted sweet to him.

 

"I don't know what you want, Jon. I can't convince you to do anything but fight in the training yard, visit the crypts, pray in the godswoods. You sit with Bran or drink by the fire. Tell me what you want, I'll give it to you. I want you to be happy."

 

"I only ever accepted being King in the North to fight the dead. I don't want power."

 

"And you think that's what I want? You think that after everything we've been through together, I want power and I'm trying to drag you into my corrupt, broken world?"

 

Jon shook his head no, but he did not speak. He could not explain without giving himself away. 

 

Sansa's chest rose and fell, her composure reclaimed with each breath until she finally regained control of herself.

 

"Starks do not have the luxury of living a life of idleness. Power means responsibility and that means work, not for our own gain but for others. That's what I'm trying to offer you, Jon. Not entanglements in disputes for preserving power, but the good that might come from it. That's what Starks do."

 

He was matching her, breath for breath without intending to, not catching her meaning in his determination to convince her of his. "I'm not a Stark." He said again, quietly, fervently, needing her to accept it, to understand what he could not bring himself to say, but what flickered in her eyes was only rejection. 

 

She let him be for days, a week, two weeks, giving him even more time to dwell on his misfortunes which seemed to grow each time he thought of them: Son but not to his father, half-brother but not to his siblings, heir but not to Winterfell. 

 

Everything he had loved was taken with the revelation of his parentage, and he had been repulsed by the one thing he could have won from it, the throne. But that was not the entirety of it. No, sometimes during feasts when he drank just the right amount of ale and his eyes lingered too long on his cousin dancing with Northern Lords, he was accidentally honest with himself, and on those occasions, he knew that what he had lost was not what made him ache, that being a cousin rather than brother was not what made him feel alone. 

 

He sighed into his cup, told himself to look away and was surprised when he realized his eyes had not obeyed. Sansa was in the arms of a handsome Lord who had never been a bastard or bent the knee or been her brother, and yet her eyes strayed from his and met Jon's. Music and laughter and conversation did not falter, the movements of the dancers did not slow, but once, twice, thrice while another man held her, she looked at Jon. First, she was laughing, then she was thoughtful, and then, she had a small smile that Jon could not identify. He was afraid he had given himself away, and he determined to leave, but just like his eyes, his legs refused to listen.

 

The next morning, still dull from the late night and ale, Jon was befuddled by the commotion at his door, and was certain he was having a strange dream when Sansa marched in, her grey dress and leather belt discarded for clothes that might have been a maid's, coarse brownish material that still could not diminish her beauty, and he must have said something along those lines in his stupefied state because she blushed and waved a hand at the guard to dismiss him. "You need to dress in simple clothes and come with me."

 

Jon sat up, rubbing his face, his feet finding the floor, "And where are we going?"

 

"We are going to have a day of leisure." 

 

"I didn't know you knew what that was."

 

"You can sit on your bed and try to make quips, or you can come with me and see if I do."

 

Jon should not have been surprised that Sansa's version of a leisurely day was not at all what the word implied. She insisted no guards were necessary, but then she also insisted Jon leave Longclaw on his horse with a squire standing by. Jon was not pleased, but he did not verbalize his objection. They dismounted in Wintertown where they bought bread and pies and cakes from the stores, more than they had any use for since their cook made their own, but bearing their burdens they made their way to the refugee encampment, and there Sansa was welcomed with a familiarity that indicated this was not her first or third or fifth visit. Jon had never known her to disappear from Winterfell for hours, but watching her, he couldn't be surprised that she had. 

 

She had told him of those that starved in King's Landing, of what had nearly become of her, and she had determined to never let that happen to her people, to never let them starve, never let desperation make them become less than human. 

 

She dropped kisses to little faces, motioned for Jon to offer cakes to the children instead of stupidly standing there admiring her. She gave bread to the parents, and the murmur that rose up around them, the worshipful way they received the gifts, Jon couldn't help but feel a new level of devotion stir within him as well. 

 

The spring thaw was upon them, their heavy furs abandoned with the long night, and the light breeze that wandered among the encampment painted Sansa’s cheeks a ruddy color, transforming her from the stoic Lady of Winterfell into a young woman again. He turned away, afraid that tears would come to his eyes at the sight of her joy, the sound of her laughter.

 

Men were striking tents and moving them to less muddy ground, so as soon as his hands were empty, Jon went to help them. Sansa was among the children, laughing as they chased each other. He turned back to his work and was soon covered in more than his share of the grime.

 

Sansa found him eventually, only slightly less dirty than he, "What happened to you?" he asked, trying to not smile too broadly. 

 

"You aren't a pretty sight either, Jon" Sansa replied, unashamed. "Come, let's eat." 

 

He had thought, and foolishly hoped, they would sneak away for a private meal, instead Sansa led him to a fire to join other who were eating as well. Sitting in the same dirt, eating from the same pot, laughing at the same jokes as the others; Jon was struck at Sansa's ease with such people, her courtesy and grace allowing her to be as happily situated among them as she had been among Lords and Ladies. The experience was strange, familiar, it brought back memories of life among the Wildlings, but not at all alike, for this was not a war party, they had no weapons, no lands to reclaim, they simply wanted to live. 

 

Sansa sat beside him in the dirt, happily discussing how she was working to fund her pet project, new homes. He felt ill that she had been trying to include him in her work and he had been so intent on his own identity, his role, and what it did or didn't mean that he had neglected to understand anything she had been trying to tell him. The sounds of the camp rose up around him and he tried to pull himself to the present, he looked at Sansa. He wanted to stay there in the present and stop moping about the past. 

 

Eventually, she rose, he scrambled up after her, and they left the encampment. They rode slowly toward Winterfell, the squire sent on ahead, Sansa allowing her mare to graze if she chose, saunter at her own pace, and Jon found himself speaking without thought, "Seeing you like this--" he stopped, but knew he would have to finish his sentence, he'd gone too far to leave it unfinished. "You were as happy among refugees as among Lords and Ladies." He waited, then forced himself to say it, "You are always beautiful, but today, you were radiant."

 

He expected embarrassment, a sweet murmur accepting his clumsily expressed compliment. He was totally unprepared for ladylike Sansa to shout with laughter. Not just one abrupt bellow, but continuous contortions of merriment that she clearly could not contain. She reigned in her mare, dismounted, still laughing, and clasped her hands to her stomach. "Only you! Only you would accompany me to feed the starving and eat boiled potatoes and wallow in filth and walk away thinking about how beautiful I am!" 

 

Jon told himself not to sulk, sulking was childish, he was  _not_  a child, but Sansa was laughing at his earnest sentiment, and that made him feel like a child again.

 

He spent so much time in battle, so many days and nights killing in order to preserve life, and yet he had become distanced from it. Today he faced it again, Sansa had brought him with her to embrace it. 

 

And without her saying, he knew she was instructing him, telling him that his disdain for ruling was because he misunderstood what it could do, even if there was no war at hand.  _This_  was what power was for. The only moral pleasure to be found in it, the ability to do good. 

 

He was off his horse before he knew it, kneeling before her in the dirt, she was not laughing but smiling, "Sansa, I--"

 

Her hands touched his beard, the feel of her fingers softly scratching against his skin left him mute, "I know, Jon. The Freefolk are not so different than the Northerners, the Southerners not our enemy, Targaryen is now yet another house brought low by war. Even though we fight and feud, we are all so much alike. Lady and bastard, you and I, we are not so different."

 

He swallowed, "I'll attend the meetings, I'll be sociable with the Lords, I'll stop brooding, I'll--"

 

She leaned forward, her forehead to his, "You and I both know that last promise is one you can't keep." She buried her smile in his shoulder as he stood and held her. "I'll work with you, Sansa. Whatever you want, we'll do it together, even your version of 'leisure' activities."

 

"Well, we can always negotiate what  _those_  will be after the wedding."

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Never wrote for a prompt or challenge before, and it is really hard!


End file.
